


My Poems :)

by ScorpioSnoopy666



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8149130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScorpioSnoopy666/pseuds/ScorpioSnoopy666
Summary: My poems I have written over the years. Some are gothic themed, others are not. Hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

In this selection of prose, you will find many poems which were written by me (the Admin of this account) over the years. They may not be in order of when I wrote them, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.  
Some (well, let's face it, most) may include gothic imagery and other stuff :)  
Hope you like it! be sure to leave a comment and a Kudos if you want to


	2. Former Student's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem I wrote on the day I went to collect my GCSE results, first starting college after secondary school

Yearning for learning.  
I creep through the gates to the school,  
once a pantomime of games and giggles.  
Now a rust -riddled and dust-laden temple dedicated to the Headmaster God.  
Its walls crumble.

Through the broken windows,  
Skeletons are chained to desks,  
marking decaying books for all eternity.  
My soul and mind are with the lifeless staff,  
but my body carries on through the forbidding doors.

Skitters are heard.  
Not one ghostly face dares to recognize me,  
for I am a mystery,  
a shadow of what had been.  
Classrooms rot before my eyes,  
the IT suites now empty graves of ancient artifacts,  
now defective as their pixel blood is drained forever.

As the sky darkens,  
I stagger into the post-apocalyptic wasteland of a playground,  
once a place of friendships and fun galore,  
now a dystopian memory wrapped in an abundance of weeds, reeds, nettles and thistles.  
Its only occupant, now standing there like a zombie.

Why do I put myself through this?  
Why must I endure mental shocks?  
My hoodie deflates, becoming a sweatshirt, my headphones now a threadbare tie.  
All I wish for is nostalgia,  
to hear and see my friends and teachers,  
just one last time.  
Not to stir the ghosts from their sleep,  
I yearn for learning again,  
but I can't bear it.

The town clock strikes like the classroom bell.  
Nobody greets me.  
Like I said I am a shell of a student,  
a shadow of what had been.

Back outside, I board the night bus,  
which stopped at the bent bus stop.  
Being driven from solitude and liberty,  
back to my bustling reality.


	3. Trick Or Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This poem is one I wrote in Year 9 for a poetry competition, and was one of the 3 in my school which got published :D  
> It's rather short, though

Autumn licks paint on the leaves,  
transforming them to red, orange and gold.  
As they fall gracefully from new ash trees  
and oak trees so gnarled, twisted and old.

The evening sunset lights a path through the woods  
as it melts into the sky over the hills like a cob of corn.  
I run along this path as the mud splashes on my wellies, caking them in the mess.  
My dress, thin and ragged, does not chill me as I dash through the autumn breeze  
coat flowing, arms swinging, leaves rustling.

I look up ad see a crescent moon rising, dividing the road in half.  
Sighing, I continue walking as I clutch my jack o lantern torh  
and my bucket of sugary treasures.

Soon I reach a tall house, it's stairs were crumbling beneath my feet.  
I knocked in the door, the sound echoing through the forest.  
It creaked open as I stated the phrase;  
"Trick or treat."


	4. People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem I wrote for my mum, who was trying to write a poem of her own, called "People"

Here they come again, in numbers,  
Skipping along with glee,  
Like stones unto the sea,  
as they mingle with green trees,  
in the weather of winter and summer.

People everywhere are taking the world by storm,  
risking lives, taking chances,  
slipping in and out of romances,  
even joining in the midnight dances,  
for people, this is the norm.

O me, O my. O riddle me this:  
Can I findeth myself in this crowd?  
In this every growing cloud,  
of empty headed gamblers,  
and battle scarred saviours?  
Can one smell the scent of anti-social behaviour?  
That bitter, bitter flavour

on their tongues when they are forced to light an unlit path?  
The answer, my friends, is imagination.  
A weapon to connect all the nations,  
to be the act of salvations  
as it lights the way for us?

Henceforth, as the conclusion,  
to avoid all confusion.  
We'll survive to the end,  
on everyone we depend,  
at the end of the day and time,  
we are people, only human.


	5. Playground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short poem I wrote when I was in Year 7/ Year 8 in class :)  
> Hope you enjoy it

Through the doors and out they go,  
as the children were freed,  
like caged tigers released into the wild.

Sun captured the pupils' hearts  
avoiding where the teachers patrolled.

Shouts, screams and laughter  
rang out like church bells at a wedding.

Playtime is hard work for teachers,  
but playtime is made for noise!!


	6. Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is around the corner, my ghosties and ghoulies!  
> Enjoy this spooky poem I wrote not so long ago, in the cool time of late September/ early October.  
> MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Another attack in the dead of night,  
Moonless. The sky at its darkest hour.  
The creature hungers for another bite,  
as the bell tolls solemnly in the lonely, cold, tower.

A corpse at the side of the darkened street,  
amoungst the rats and town's pests.  
The last drops of life-coloured red leaks into the gutter,  
as the soul wanders aimlessly without rest.

Grandfather, O! He knew the cause.  
He told me and my brother the truth.  
It's not some knife, it is jaws,  
which contain a sharpened tooth.

"Grandfather?" said I.  
"Brother dearest? surely this is some creature of mere fable."  
Grandfather looked through me with wise owl eyes,  
to speak right now I was not able.  
He sharpened a wooden stick,  
turning it from harmless to lethal.  
"Young lass, t'is no lie or story,  
this is a creature of pure evil."

Brother and he donned leather coats,  
swords and guns to their belts.  
Their expressions as cold as the stone in the walls.  
I watched curiously, hoping they'd return and rise when they fall.

Battle cries, weapons clash  
against other weapons and skin.  
Bringing forth screams and bursts of ashes,  
in a blood red river as scarlet as sin.

O, God! O, Christ!  
Please shelter my soul!  
I want to live in the light, not the dark.  
I pray to Him, crucifix out in a flash,  
my woe, my hope is gone as if swallowed by a shark.

Hiding under a weathered oak,  
the leaves fall to the ground below.  
I never ran nor screamed, nor have I spoke,  
to frightened to even find a path to follow.

A hand, so soft but as cold as ice,  
rests upon my weary head.  
My tearful blue eyes flicker up to the shadowed male.  
But this male; was he alive or dead?  
His hair coal black, his skin ivory,  
eyes as red as the flames of hell.  
He was there, guarding, protecting,  
or eyeing me as prey? I could not tell.

"Dearest sister?" a voice hissed softly,  
I looked 'round, he was nowhere to be seen.  
"brother?" said I. "Was that sound from thee?"  
A hand came over my mouth, muffling my scream.

"Please don't cry out! the others will come!"  
Brother hissed within a trice.  
My heart beat just like a drum.  
I was no sibling; only a sacrifice.

Those fangs! needle-like, bloodstained,  
bit into my tender neck.  
Behind his hand I yelled, so pained,  
My blood stained my snowy-white coat.

"Little sister, little sister" his voice cooed.  
"Please awaken in my arms again."  
He spoke again, interrupting the quietude.  
"Awake! for you have slept through the pain."

My fingers twitch like broken toys.  
My eyes now opened, as red as blood.  
Skin ice cold, I stood with elegant poise,  
fangs of my own behind my pouted lips (colour of rosebud).

"But no! Oh no!" I gasp in surprise.  
Brother offered me his extended hand.  
Tears a-slipping from my eyes,  
This was not what I had planned.

I took his hand tightly, still afraid,  
for what Grandfather would have to say.  
What will become of his crusade?  
What will happen at the break of day?

Hands slip off my silver cross.  
"You won't need this" said he.  
I thanked my sibling (though I felt loss)  
at what I had to see.

There lay Grandfather, a stake in his heart.  
His body limp, the eyes no life.  
Just another body for the funeral cart.  
I sobbed at the shock, the strife,

he went through to reach us,  
was he human? maybe.  
The memories of the lessons he'd teach us,  
through the stages of pre-teen, child and baby.

Together forever,  
my brother and I.  
In the shadows,  
we will not die.

Whether I find a man,  
If brother finds a wife.  
In the years ahead,  
for the rest of our lives.

Another attack in the dead of night,  
Moonless the sky at its darkest hour.  
Neither of us do care if it's wrong or right,  
Unfortunate souls succumb to our power.

With our hands clasped and eyes aglow.  
For prey, for blood we spy.  
Enveloped in the guard of the shadows.  
Who knows who is the next to die?


	7. Mr Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a poem about sleep paralysis.  
> If you don't like it, skip this chapter, okey?  
> No offence is meant to be caused by this.

A restraint assortment of pillow and sheet,  
as the 12 o'clock chimes ring outside.  
My body; it's numb from my head to my feet.  
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

I stare up at my darkened ceiling,  
the light bulb hanging in the centre of it.  
But I can't help but get the feeling,  
that he'll be here in a bit.

Never early, never late.  
Mr Midnight is right on cue.  
All through the night he stands and waits.  
What he wants, I have no clue.

He's tall with a black suit and hat,  
a shadowed phantom at my bed.  
His hands clasped behind his back  
his presence filled me with so much dread.

Mr Midnight, why do you arrive?  
When the world sleeps in Dreamland?  
Why can't we live our lives,  
without your shadowed hand?

I saw your eyes, oh so bright,  
shining in the darkened depths.  
Two small dots, both piercing white.  
I was frozen, the room as cold as death.

You scare me, Mr Midnight.  
Do you mean well? do you mean harm?  
I'm helpless, tightly bound under the moonlight,  
feathery soft shackles on my legs and arms.

I stare wide-eyed all the while,  
as you flash a pearly white grin.  
Your sinister looks, it did beguile,  
my mind, as goosebumps rose up on my skin.

All through the night, you watched me,  
like and angel; but you didn't intend  
to protect or guard my tired body.  
You were NOT my friend!

The henchmen invited to stand at your flanks,  
I wanted to scream, but my mouth was dry.  
You ventured closer to me, the group's stares still blank,  
I wanted to look away, feeling as if I'd die.

The door flew open, two figures standing there.  
One held incense, the other a light.  
Radiating from them was an aura of care.  
Bringing me peace on this cold night.

They banished you, Mr Midnight,  
with their spells of good and kindness,  
As the incense burned red, the smoke grey and white,  
like a maid it cleaned up the mess.

I could move and smile again,  
the figures tucked me in tight.  
For it was almost dawn, and I was free from your pain.  
They smiled and bade me good night.


	8. An Author's Soliloquy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something I wrote earlier today

Come to me, book, come to my side.  
My ink-stained hands are open wide.  
Come to my call, O faithful pages!  
Made from the ancient Tree of Ages.

Ah! my trusty quill of dreams,  
helps me note my thoughts and schemes.  
I opened the book with a heavy creak,  
Let me write what the reader may seek.

It's horror, romance, or even a tragedy.  
Each words spark like lightning on the sea.  
With each drop of ink, the story's defined,  
opening a gateway to the author's troubled mind.

My words shouting loud, making the reader cry or laugh,  
as they walk down the fictional path,  
of the book I cast like a witch's spell.  
Will they stay? will they go? only time will tell.

Drama, action, romance and more,  
who's to say what's in store?  
After all, an author's job (though I didn't say before)  
is to leave the reader wanting more.

With shaking hands, I drop the pen,  
My bloodshot eyes now refusing to stay open.  
The time ticked on, shiny ink drying to a dull shade.  
I look at my creation, the story I made.

Is it worthy to be passed down,  
the generations for years starting from now?  
Will it be in a school or college class?  
Or end up in the bin with broken glass?

I close the hefty pages of paper and leather,  
with a silver band I seal it together.  
Here it is, the book upon my shelf.  
Maybe you'd like to experience the story for yourself?


End file.
